Sabbatical for the Soul Day 6 Sabbatical for the Soul
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Sabbatical For The Soul -- Day 1: Day One free porn video
He awoke to rays of sunlight splashing a golden cast on the smooth white
ceiling above.
As his eyes slowly focused on the scene in front of him, he could not
help but feel that something was off, although he was unable quite put
his finger on what that was exactly. As he slowly emerged from his nap,
it gradually dawned on him.
~My ceiling is painted gray...not white.~
This splash of revelation jolted him from his slumber. As the shock
washed through him, he realized that the sun lit ceiling was all he
could see - or rather, all he was ~able~ to see, as he was somehow
unable to move his eyes. His gaze was squarely affixed to the overlying
ceiling. Not just his gaze, he realized; he was unable to budge a single
muscle in his body! Even stranger still, he found that his vision was in
fact the ~only~ sense that was intact. He could not hear, smell, taste,
or feel ~anything~. It was as if he was experiencing the world through a
muted television.
~What...what is going on?~
As he became increasingly aware of his bizarre state of disembodiment,
fear and confusion enveloped him. With renewed vigor, he struggled to
sit up, or turn his head, or scream, or ~anything~. It dawned on him
that he could not even feel himself draw a breath, which only deepens
his desperation.
~Oh God...someone paralyzed me and I'm going to asphyxiate and die.~
His emotions at this point were a tangle of total terror, confusion, and
conflict. Where was he? How did he get here? Was he dead? How can he
even ~feel~ that sinking pit in his stomach when the only sensory input
he seems to have was his vision? Where is that floral scent coming from?
~Wait. Is that...flowers?~
A fresh, almost imperceptible perfume of flowers tickled his sense of
smell. With each passing moment, the aroma grew more noticeable. Pausing
to take stock over this, he concluded that he must have in fact been
breathing in order to be able to smell - he just was not able to feel
his chest move. This insight lightened his anxiety - maybe he was
getting better?
As if on-cue, a distant, muffled buzz drifted into his ear, confirming
his suspicion that his faculties were indeed slowly returning. He was
still unable to lift a finger, or even ~feel~ his finger. But as the
buzz droned on, he cued in to other sounds were fading into existence. A
gentle brushing of curtains drifting in a breeze, their grommets
clacking hypnotically on the curtain rod. A rhythmic lapping of waves.
The metric tick-tock of a nearby clock, denoting the passage of time.
These sounds were all alien to him, starkly contrasting to the urban
cacophony outside the window of his small New York flat. He strained his
senses, desperately grasping all the information before him. He still
couldn't move, but he suspected he was near water.
As his symphony of senses continued to crescendo so did the muffled buzz
that he had first noticed, which had continued to drone all this time.
His attention was pulled away, however, to a new, indescribable
tingling. At first, he could not discern where it was coming from, as
his disembodiment state has left him without any sensory point of
reference. But with each slow, passing moment, the tingling began to
build. At some point he realized that it was his toes that were engulfed
with the tingling.
It was also at this point that the tingling slowly ascended. Like the
inching flow of an incoming tide, the band crept up his toe ...then, his
feet. After that...his heels...and then, his ankles. As it crawled up
his feet and shins, he noticed the prickly band had left a residual
sensation in its wake. It was neither pain or heat - it was sensation
itself!
He felt a feathery softness over his toes, which he concluded must be a
blanket. As the paresthetic band climbed up his knees and thighs, it
left in his wake the light pressure of the bed sheet. He felt immensely
relieved; at the very least, whatever was done to him was slowly washing
out of his system. He noted that his legs felt out of proportion, like
they were too short for his six-foot frame, but he chalked it up to his
discombobulated state.
It was not until the tingling had crept up his waist that he realized
something else was amiss. As the band slid past his hips, he noticed
that it lingered in his groin. And grew. And grew.
This shattered the relief he had been feeling until now. The tingling
was in his groin.
In. Inside.
It was unmistakably inside his pelvis!
With yet another attempt he tried to lift his now tingling finger to
investigate, only to realize he was still bound by the invisible
shackles. Meanwhile, the tingling has progressed up his ribcage, ever
creeping to his nipples, and up his fingers... kunckles... hands...
wrist....
And still the buzzing built inside of him. It was steady, yet
undulating. It sent waves upon waves of sensation through his belly, his
knees, his toes - all the parts of his body that he was able to feel.
The rest of his world remained unchanged: the breeze, the scent, the
methodical tick-tock of the unseen clock off in a corner somewhere.
~What the hell was done to me?! Why is there something inside of me?!~
Was he waking up from an anesthetic, after being experimented upon by
some mad scientists? Or maybe he was in a spaceship after a botched
alient implant, cruising at warp speed to a distant planet. His
imagination fluttered as he searched his memories - the last he
remembered was turning in for the night. His boss, a stout man with a
serious face, had berated his lack of output at work. Then there was the
crowded subway car, packed with sweaty salarymen, He remembered finally
arriving home, locking all the doors and windows so he could not have
been so easily kidnapped. And who would do such a thing? He had a menial
desk job at a large company where he was just an employee number; he had
a handful of friends but no enemies and certainly no reason to have a
target on his back...
He was shook from his ruminations by another swell of sensation that
washed as high as his nipples, where it lingered. By this time the
tingling had reached his neck, and he was able to feel enough of his
body to conclude that the proportions were definitely off. He felt tiny
under the delicate pressure of the bed sheets, except over his chest
where it was much more substantial. Was he having a heart attack? Maybe
that's it.
A fresh wave overtook him, surging through his body as the tingling now
migrated to his ear and face. His lips felt swollen, heavy, moist.
Involuntarily, he blinked, accompanied with a flutter of weighty
eyelashes. He felt the gentle brush of his breath entering and leaving
his lungs, only now realizing how heavy he had been breathing, drawing
his breath in and out in deep sighs that were increasingly urgent in
pace. His nipples became more noticeable, swollen, engorged. As his
chest heaved up and down with his heavy breathing, the sheets rubbed
over his nipples, sending additional ripples through his body. As it
lapped towards his pelvis, it was met with another wave.
This new wave surged over him with a fire he's never felt before. It
pulsed over his entire body, up his face, and reverberated through every
fiber of his being. It rushed into his brain, pushing aside all the
clues he'd been gathering about where he is, washing them to one tiny
corner of his brain.
The sensation was pleasure, he realized in the back of his mind, and it
was overwhelming, even crushing.
And it was still building.
Pinpoint droplets of sweat began to form on his skin. He was on fire,
ablaze with it, despite still being unable to move or command any part
of his body. His breathing quickened, becoming more frantic, more
desperate. He heard the faint sound of panting. It registered a full
octave higher than what his ears were used to, but this detail slipped
just as quickly from his consciousness as yet another burst of molten
pleasure gushed through him.
This time, parts of his body reacted. His toes tensed, his fingers
stiffened. His breath caught, and his head arched slightly, causing a
tugging on his scalp. ~Do... they... have... my... brain... wired?~ Even
his thoughts were being interrupted by the unrelenting waves of
pleasure. His fingers and toes continued their frantic dance, and soon
enough he was able to notice this, despite the droning buzz in his
pelvis and the cloud of pleasure that was dominating his thoughts.
He struggled, and tried to move again. With each passing moment his
movements grew in magnitude. Quivers became twitches and shudders became
squirms, but by now his attempts to escape were at best semi-purposeful
- mostly a reaction to the assaulting pleasure. Bending his arms became
a reactive stiffening; sitting up became yet another twisting arch of
his back. By this time, every slide of the bed sheet amplified the
sensations on his skin, and sending more thrills through him. A high-
pitched, strangulated moan came from his throat, a completely novel
sound to him. It didn't register his consciousness; by this time
coherent thought was impossible.
Whereas he was completely void of sensations earlier, he was now
drowning in the deluge, begging for release. But still the buzzing
continued, and the mountain of pleasure continued to build.
He writhed in searing, agonizing pleasure. Turning to his side, he felt
the sheets slide across his swollen chest and nipples, the friction
sending a lightning storm throughout his body. He jerked in response,
thrusting his hips forward, shifting the buzzing object inside him ever
so slightly. It triggered him.
He was gone. His consciousness catapulted into a rapturous haze. Every
inch of his body erupted in pure ecstasy. He opened his eyes, not
realizing that he had ever closed them, to a shower of scintillating
white light. He felt monumental, as a tsunami of raw indescribable
sensory input crashed through him. Off in the distance, he heard a voice
cry out, a sweet soprano of someone in the throes of passion.
Slowly, he descended from his orgasmic torrent. In a semi-conscious
state, he collapsed into a panting heap, mired in a blissful afterglow.
The muted background noise of the room crept back into his
consciousness, the muffled buzz droned on, percussed by the tick-tock of
a faraway clock. He drifted off to sleep.
~~~ *** ~~~ *** ~~~ *** ~~~
An untold amount of time passed before he awoke again, to a gentle
swaying. Up... down... up... down. He was laying on his sides, and as
his eyelids fluttered open sleepily, he surveyed the room before him.
The golden beams of a setting sun splashed across what looked to be a
small but pleasant space. Its walls were adorned with works of abstract
art, swirling patterns of azure and aquamarine that resembled waves
flowing into each other. The floor was covered with a carpet speckled
with earthy tones. The tiny room must not have measured more than twenty
by fifteen feet.
Beside him sat a beautiful bouquet of carnations and peonies, placed in
a peach-colored vase. It sat atop a chestnut bedside table, its only
company a small alarm clock. Beyond the table was a small tweed
loveseat, facing a wall-mounted television and a dressing table. There
were various items laid out - a purse, a jewelry box bejeweled with
crystals, a comb, and an envelope. Further along the table sat a large
mirror, and beyond that two narrow doorways.
He directed his gaze towards the ceiling, but was met with a wall of
auburn hair obstructing his vision. Puzzled, he reached up brush away
the obstruction. As he pulled his hand out of the covers, he felt a
jiggling weight on his chest. Brushing his hair away, he realized the
bangs were in fact attached to his scalp. Stunned, he held out his hands
in front of him, and was greeted by a delicate hand, its digits tipped
with neatly manicured nails. It was unquestionably feminine.
"What?!" He exclaimed, bolting up in his bed. Instead of his usual male
voice, his ears were filled with a melodious soprano. "What happened to
my voice? What happened to my BODY?!"
Now sitting upright, he was struck by a weight pulling on his chest,
Looking down, he saw the tops of a generous pair of breasts, their
creamy skin enclosed in a satin nightgown. Its cups were soft yet
offered a measure of support, pressing his milky assets together to form
a respectable amount of cleavage. Resting on his right breast was a
thick braid, a rope of scarlet hair that he traced with his hands to the
side of his head. This was his hair!
Incredulous, he looked up and was greeted by the full blast of the
setting sun. Looking to his right, he realized that his bed was beside a
full-length glass door leading out to a small balcony. The door was
slightly ajar, allowing a gentle breeze to flow in and brush the sheer
curtains that were half open. Beyond the lay the horizon, the rays of a
setting sun highlighting the clouds, setting their edges ablaze with
fiery oranges and yellows. The horizon was far in the distance, bridged
by a wide blue expanse of ocean.
He scampered out of bed and bounded out to the balcony. As his feet hit
the cool tile floor, a feminine yelp escaped his throat. Tip-toeing to
the railing, he leaned out, ignoring the gusts of the ocean breeze that
brushed his new locks over his face and eyes. He brushed them to one
side, and looked around.
There were similar balconies all around him. Below him lay the ocean,
about 100 feet underneath.
"I'm on a ship! I'm on a cruise ship! How did I get here? And why am I a
woman?"
Another gust of wind, this time slightly stronger, greeted his now lithe
frame. He looked down, seeing a flutter of champagne satin in the wind,
held to his body by tiny spaghetti straps on his slender shoulders. The
chill of the breeze bought his nipples to attention, sending miniscule
jolts of static throughout his core.
He retreated back into the shelter of the room, and shut the glass door
behind him as his nightgown settling limply to his calves. His mind was
reeling. So somehow, he was kidnapped and altered into this new body. Or
did they alter him first? Either way, one minute he was a man in his
apartment and suddenly he's transported here. It was clear to him now
that what he had experienced earlier was an orgasm. The buzzing inside
him meant...
He reached down with his hand and brushed his groin. Flat. His manhood
was not there. Whatever was buzzing was, quite literally, inside him.
Only it wasn't buzzing anymore, and he didn't feel any object inside of
him. Glancing to the bed, he saw a small round object with a cord that
led to what appeared to be a controller.
It was a sex toy. A love egg. And it must've been inside of him.
"Well it's not buzzing now...so the batteries must be dead." There was
his strange soprano voice again.
Scanning the room he tried to find more clues to where he was, or where
he was going. He rushed to the dresser table, where the purse was. As he
reached to the purse, he noticed the envelope. On it was two, neatly
written words.
OPEN ME
He hastily snatched it and tore it open. Pulling out the contents, he
tossed the envelope aside. Unfolding the pale yellow paper, he found a
letter, written in round and feminine writing.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Dear Vivian
That's you! Or rather, that's me. Except right now, you're me. But not
really.
You're actually in my body. Or rather, your soul is. Your body is safe
and sound with me - I swapped us. But don't worry! This is not
permanent.
I must first apologize for the swapping process. The first few moments
must have been especially scary, as your soul was plugging itself into
to each of the senses one by one.
You see, I'm a Witch. I've been curious about how life is like on the
other side of the gender fence. Was it true that men had it easy? Or do
girls really have all the fun? After a while, I decided to find out. But
swapping with some random soul on the street would be dangerous - after
all, what happens if they go to the police? Or run off with my body? Or
confront me? It would get messy. Not to mention that it's probably
wrong.
This is still wrong, but I'm hoping less so. Consulting the Craft, It
led me to you, and It gave me permission to perform the Ritual of
Exchange. You have no idea how surprised I was when the Craft gave me
permission - maybe there's some higher plan at play here. Besides,
you've never had a vacation in years, so I booked a cruise and boarded
it before triggering the Exchange. I've set up an account for you on the
ship with plenty of pre-purchased packages - dinners, extra gifts, spa
days, and shows. Just no Internet or phone ;). I'm hoping a relaxing,
all-expense paid trip out to sea will even the score a little bit.
I know it's hard for you to trust me even if I ask but nonetheless,
please trust me: I won't do anything bad to your body. The first Law of
the Craft is Equivalent Exchange. If I harm your body, harm will befall
myself and according to the Law of Benevolence, this harm will befall me
twofold that which I do unto you. I will be taking a vacation in your
body as well - but nothing crazy. Maybe a fishing trip with some beers.
Maybe hitting the bar. Maybe experiencing with sex is like as a man with
members of my coven - don't worry, they're in on this too and bound by
the same Laws. You won't catch anything ;).
Speaking of catching anything - you won't either. Before I left, I cast
a barrier that will prevent you from getting any diseases. Why? Well
because I know my body better than anyone else, and that it has needs.
Nothing overpowering, and certainly nothing unpleasant, but I wouldn't
mind if you decided to use it for an equally educational experience on
your end. In fact, you should - who else gets a chance like this?
And on that topic, I'm sure that orgasm would have been astonishing for
you. I can only imagine someone experiencing my climaxes as their very
first female one. It was unfortunately a necessary part of the ritual:
the sexual energies released binds soul to the body. It probably was a
little freaky having found the egg that I'd left inside but, I'm sure
the experience was mind-blowing in more ways than one!
Anyways, enjoy yourself! I've packed everything you'll need to enjoy a
week-long cruise of the Mediterranean. Don't worry about how to be a
girl - I've left just a sliver of my soul inside, just to help you out
with things like your hair and your clothes...and just enough to prevent
my cover from being blown ;).
Enjoy!
Vivian
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Finishing the letter, he dropped it, stunned, as it fluttered to the
ground. He felt light-headed and rested his hands on the table in front
of him, breathing heavily as the gravity of the situation set in.
Magic? Laws? Rituals? It was all outrageously fantastical. Yet the two
mounds hanging from his chest made the letter's assertions indisputable.
His very existence has been plucked from his body and plunked into the
middle of the ocean, where it was impossible to call or contact anyone.
He backed away from the table, and slumped into the bed, head hanging,
and placed his pretty little face in his hands in defeat. What was he
going to do?!
~~~ *** ~~~ *** ~~~ *** ~~~
It seems that Vivian had laid out quite an elaborate plan to imprison
him on this ship while she kidnaps his body for a joyride. He had spent
much of the evening rummaging through the room to gather as much
information on her as he could.
To his dismay, her wallet was devoid of credit cards even or cash. Quite
crafty, he noted. He couldn't even buy Internet access or make contact
if he tried. Even if he did, who was he going to call? Himself? Vivian
had made sure he was stranded out here; she'd surely have a way to
handle him if he called.
Rummaging through her purse, he also found her passport. Her full name
was Vivian Isabelle Quinn, a 25 year-old living in New Jersey. He had
found some business cards that suggested she was a photographer. She
must be pretty successful, he thought, to be able to afford all of this.
She had also brought a phone on board the ship, but the SIM card was
removed. Scrolling through her phone confirmed her success - there were
pictures that were clearly from her portfolio, which even included a few
Hollywood stars. Judging from the photos, he concluded that Vivian was a
lady of contradictions. She must have been quite headstrong and
tenacious to be able to build such a successful photography studio at
such a young age. Yet, her private photos show that she was a graceful,
well-dressed young woman. She had a small circle of friends, with whom
she shared days at the park, or on the beach. She was not a wild child,
as far as the photos were concerned. For all intents and purposes, she
was a well-adjusted, mild-mannered, sample of grace and beauty. But, the
fact that she had executed this elaborate body-swap plan, however,
speaks to a different side of her.
Searching the room, he found that she had almost packed enough for a
month at sea; at least, from a man's perspective. Unfortunately for him,
Vivian's girly-girl nature was reflected in her wardrobe as well, as
there were not a single pair of pants, or shorts. In the closet was hung
innumerable long, flowing maxi dresses in an assortment of cheerful
colors, as well as a handful of sundresses. There were at least five
sets of bikinis, some of them strapless, accompanied with poolside
cover-ups of satin and silk. There were a few sleek formal gowns, which
he guessed was for the formal dinners that every cruise had. There were
also untold pairs of footwear, ranging from flip-flops, sandals, and
even a few pairs of precarious-looking heels.
So, not only was he stuck in the middle of the Mediterranean without
escape, he had to do it dressed every part the demure lady that he had
now become.
It was at this point in the evening that the defeat was driven home, as
he sat on his bed, still dressed in the champagne nightgown he woke up
wearing (one of three, he later realized).
"Well Vivian, it looks like she's got you good."
~Wait. That wasn't my name~
"No! My name's not Vivian. It's Vivian! My name is V...Vii..Viiii...
Vivian Isabelle Quinn! No it's not Vivian, it's Vivian!"
The helplessness of his situation truly struck him. Whenever he wanted
to identify himself, he was Compelled to say her name. Even worse,
however,
"I'm a girl! No, I'm not a girl...I'm a girl. A g-i-r-l. No. I'm a
m.mmm...mmmaa...girl!"
"So this is what you mean by preventing your cover from being blown,
huh, Vivian...."
He found that he was able to speak naturally on any other topic, except
that of his identity. Whenever he tried to divulge his name, however, he
was Compelled into saying any combination of her name, or that he was
now a girl. In fact, the Compulsion was so strict, he could ~only~
identify himself in the full forms of her names. Not even short forms.
"My name is Viv...ian. Ok, how about Izzee..abelle. Wow, this is
bizarre."
Curious exploration became stubborn probing as he became fixated on this
battle. It was no longer about trying to explore the spell. This became
his effort to grasp at some sort of control, however small, however
insignificant. Something to symbolize that underneath it all, he was
still him, that the defeat wasn't complete. Pacing back and forth in the
small cabin, he tried all sorts of ways to subvert the spell
"I'm a girl...I'm a woman...I'm supposed to be a mm.mmm...female."
"OK, lets try something else. Hello, you can call me Miss Quinn.
No...Mmm.. Misstt...Mmissttrr...Miss Quinn!"
"Fine. Can't call myself Mistsss. Miss. Whatever. My middle name is
Iiie...Isabelle. Isabelle. No it's not Isabelle it's Isabelle. I'm
Isabelle. No, not that name. Isabelle! OH MY GOD WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO
ME VIVIAN!?!?!" He wailed.
Thoroughly defeated now, the fear, dread and trepidation of the current
situation finally overwhelmed the newly minted girl. His eyes welled up,
and he started sobbing.
"I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask for any of this! Why...WHYYY...."
For the next half hour, he cried. He bereaved the loss of his manhood.
He grieved at the terrible absolution of his defeat. He wept at the
prospect of being completely out of touch with his family, possibly
forever. He raged at the fact that right now, a total stranger has
dominion over his entire life back home, while he is stranded in the
ocean. He blubbered like the scared damsel he looked.
As he lay back in bed, eyes dried but pillow drenched, he started
thinking about his family. About his parents, and how they must feel if
they see their son act and behave completely differently. Was this truly
temporary? What if he needs to face his parents in this body? Will they
believe that this girl; this delicate maiden with crimson hair, is
actually their son? He missed his parents...his family, his aging Granny
Izzy.
"Isabelle."
Vivian's middle name is my grandmother's name, he realized.
"I'm Isabelle." He said to himself. A small grin formed on his face, as
he realized the spell's loophole. Since they shared this one name, the
spell has cannot deflect this small rebellion.
Clinging onto this fragile connection to his identity, he relished in
this small victory. "Screw you, Vivian. I'm Isabelle."
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